


Acts of Creation

by M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)



Category: Alien Quadrilogy (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Narcissism, Rare Pairs Exchange 2019, Robot/Human Relationships, Self-cest, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-08-13 17:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20178043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/pseuds/M%20J%20Holyoke
Summary: “I’ve been reassigned to bioweaponry,” said Michael suddenly. “Immediate transfer to Aries City.”“Mars?” asked Lance.Michael nodded and continued, “And I’m going to have you and the rest of your model series placed with the Colonial Marines.”“But . . . why?” It was not in Lance’s programming to defy a direct order from Michael, but he was capable of questioning a prospective course of action.“Because you’re a better person than I am.”





	Acts of Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dudewheresmytea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dudewheresmytea/gifts).

Was it our nature to be cruel or kind? A question for the ages, to be sure.

But Michael Bishop, Chief Synthetic Component Designer of the Weyland-Yutani Corporation, figured he had that question well and truly answered. He’d spent his entire career programming robots to behave exactly like real people. So, yes, he understood something about the fundamentals of human nature.

“How was your day, Michael?” asked Lance.

“Absolutely shitty,” he replied shortly, pulling off his lab coat and his clothing as he headed without stopping straight from the front door and into the bedroom. “Corporate loves blaming R&D for all the troubles _they’ve _caused. The six-hour reaming we get at the end of every fiscal year has practically become an annual autumn ritual.”

“And what are their concerns?”

Michael emitted a humorless bark of laughter and yanked his pants down off his hips like their very existence offended him. “The usual. They want more advanced bioweaponry and less, well, _you_.”

“I see,” said Lance evenly, untroubled by the derogatory implications.

“They say colonial population growth is causing humanoid synthetics to fall out of fashion,” continued Michael. “Why buy artificial assistance when you can just breed your own locally made whelps to order? Old-fashioned fucking is free. Corporate calls you a three-trillion-dollar vanity project.”

“And I’m not?”

“Funny. You’re a real joker, you know that, Lance? Get on the bed. Hands and knees.”

Lance obeyed without question. He’d been naked when Michael arrived home for the evening, having already anticipated Michael’s carnal needs. The only lingering question was where, exactly, he would be required to fulfill them. Michael never knew what he’d be in the mood for when he got home until he was actually in the mood for it, and if Michael himself didn’t know, Lance certainly wouldn’t either. This was emphatically _not_ a case of The Created knowing His Creator better than His Creator knowing Himself.

Those sorts of things only happened in storybooks and vintage science fiction novels.

The superficial replication was top of the line, however. Weyland-Yutani was the best in the business—Michael liked to take credit for that. So everything about Lance, his height, weight, shape, and skin, were identical to Michael’s. Visually, it was near-perfect verisimilitude. Even the fine lines marring the flesh, the fingerprints, the moles and freckles, and the placement of the pores and hair follicles were all identical. Hell, given the exacting—and invasive—batteries of measurements Michael had endured to enable Lance’s creation, they fucking should be!

Of course, he couldn’t be one-hundred percent certain of _everything_. He’d never seen his own buttocks from behind, for example; he’d never seen the scattered tufts of coarse pubic hair; and he’d never seen the starburst pucker of his own asshole. Not even in a photograph. Michael could only take it on faith that everything was correct. Nevertheless, seeing Lance like this felt rather like looking at himself in the mirror, and he was reminded of archival twentieth century footage of great apes put in front of mirrors by primatologists. When the apes recognized what they saw as their own reflections, they would do things like open their mouths and inspect their teeth. Or they would contort themselves into pretzel-like positions in order to see their own genitalia for the very first time.

Michael dove in without hesitation, prying those buttocks apart and licking a long, wet stripe along the ass crack. Lance moaned softly. Encouraged by a voice which sounded identical to his own, he gave it a second lick, daring to dart the tip of his tongue into the anus and through the tight ring of muscle. Lance moaned louder. Further encouraged, he did it again. And again. And again, until his mouth was smushed against Lance’s flesh and his tongue was deep inside of him, flicking, probing, _tasting_, the closest Michael would get to tasting himself.

It was more than enough to make him achingly hard. He removed his mouth from Lance’s ass and hurriedly applied lube from a handy bottle set nearby for this purpose to his cock. Then he began to feed his cock into the same place his tongue had so recently been. Lance hissed sharply—Michael’s girth was not to be taken, ha, taken! lightly—and rocked back into Michael, welcoming the penetration. Lance was hot and tight, but not too tight, and Michael wondered if his own ass would feel this good on his cock.

This was as close as he’d ever get to knowing. Placing his hands on Lance’s waist to brace himself, he began to thrust. No need to be gentle, or considerate, or to start slow. This was _Lance_, so he could take whatever he wanted . . . and he did. He pounded in and out furiously, fast enough to make his breath shaky, to make his heart race and sweat bead upon his brow, and he angled his thrusts in the direction he figured his prostate would be, if Lance were Michael and not a synthetic, and somewhere beneath him Lance was shuddering and crying out and spilling himself into Michael’s bedsheets, and Michael was roaring and jerking, flesh slapping loudly against almost-flesh, and coming, coming, _coming_.

“Michael . . .” Lance twisted his head back so that he could see Michael’s face. His expression was one of uncomplicated adoration.

Michael had never seen that expression on his own face. He wasn’t sure he’d ever loved anything or anyone.

Afterwards, they lay together in bed in easy, post-coital relaxation. Lance massaged Michael’s back and shoulders, the rhythm of the gesture familiar and soothing to them both.

“I’ve been reassigned to bioweaponry,” said Michael suddenly. “Immediate transfer to Aries City.”

“Mars?” asked Lance.

Michael nodded and continued, “And I’m going to have you and the rest of your model series placed with the Colonial Marines.”

“But . . . why?” It was not in Lance’s programming to defy a direct order from Michael, but he was capable of questioning a prospective course of action. His expression was curious, his eyes crystalline, unclouded.

“Because you’re a better person than I am.”

No one wanted synthetics who thought and behaved _exactly _like human beings. He’d learnt that after the whole Model 120-A/2 debacle at Hyperdyne Systems. This was definitely a case of less being more.

It was human nature to be cruel _and _kind, you see. This, Michael knew. But through his research Michael also knew that kindness came before cruelty, like innocence before the fall. Like a child was simpler than an adult, a synthetic was simpler than a human, and because basic goodness, basic honesty, basic _humanity_ came before the esoterisms of civilized evil—torture, genocide, _weapons of mass destruction_—Michael had come to believe that synthetics were more humane than human beings.

Michael couldn’t fix himself. He couldn’t fail to heed the call to destiny. Bioweaponry. _Fuck. _Nonetheless, he believed, God, he believed, that when the chips were down at last, when all hope seemed lost forevermore, it would be a synthetic who saved humanity—

—and Michael was vain enough to want that synthetic to be wearing his face.


End file.
